


Blood Stains (Chris Evans x Reader)

by Steggy



Series: Tumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Chris Evans - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Breakup, Coffee Shop, F/M, Makeup, this is awful sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:22:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steggy/pseuds/Steggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to get up in the morning. Not when he's not there. Not when he hasn't been there, when he never will be there again. It's been hard. What can you do to fill the void?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Stains (Chris Evans x Reader)

**Author's Note:**

> Bold is the prompt; [Y/N] is your name!
> 
> Also, advanced apologies. Not my best.
> 
> bother me on twitter @alyjevans or on tumblr @spangledcap & @poorcap

No one tells you one day you’ll wake up with a hole in your chest. That you won’t be able to breathe, that your heart will be bleeding through your shirt, soaking down your sleeve, staining that white shirt he used to love on you.

No one tells you one day it’ll all be over. Done, finished. One day, he’ll walk out that door and never look back, despite knowing that every day, you’ll watch him pull up to his house and trudge inside after a long day of shooting, unsure if it was killing him as much as it was killing you.

You blink at the harsh light spilling into your bedroom through the curtains, that hole in your chest burning around the edges, pain flickering and licking at you with every waking breath. No one told you it would be there one day.

And no one told you it was going to be Chris Evans that put it there.

Eyes finally adjusting, you focus in on the black slab rested on the edge of your nightstand, quiet, dormant. As it has been for awhile now. No missed calls, no texts. Not even any alarms. Who cared if you got up that day? Who was going to kiss you awake, make you breakfast?

Not him.

So what was the point?

You sigh and force yourself to reach over for your phone, knowing fully well there would be nothing there for you to see, no new news, no new messages from nonexistent friends desperate to pull you out of your slump.

But it’s not that adorable, overly cheesy picture of a basket of puppies that greets you at the touch of the screen. You choke, coughing at what blackens out the innocent picture meant to keep you going.

**1 New Message from Chris**

_Meet me for coffee?_

It’s a simple question. A simple request. But it stops your heart. The doctors are calling the time. You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it, staring down at your screen. Coffee? Why? Why now? Sitting up in your bed, the covers pool in your lap, and you look down at yourself. Chocolate stained hands, torn sweatpants. Big white shirt. His big white shirt.

You couldn’t meet him. Not like this. How could you…? How could he…?

Not only does the hole in your heart burn, but now the phone in your hand starts to flame as well.

How do you respond?

Hesitantly, you swipe open your phone, bringing it to the messages screen, fingers hovering over the little keyboard.

What do you say?

_Give me an hour._

Then the phone is locked, thrown away, like it had turned to poison. And it probably had. It sinks into the covers somewhere on the far opposite side of the bed. His side. His old side. The poison lingers on your hands, stinging.

Your room becomes a war zone. It’s a struggle, to pull out the knots in your hair, to paint your face. To pick an outfit that isn’t the sweatpants you’ve lived in for weeks. Or to resist that last piece of chocolate cake for breakfast. Finally ready, though only physically, the soft click of the lock of your front door makes it real. The sound of your shoes hitting the wet pavement after another day of rain, makes it real. The chime over the door as you enter the coffee shop, real. The piercing blue eyes that meet yours from across the room, too real.

Swallowing, you muster a small smile. Give a polite hello. Sit down across from him.

You hope he can’t hear the pounding of your heart and the screams of the hole in your chest.

“Hey,” Chris muses, studying your face. He slides a coffee cup across the table, and your eyebrows furrow in confusion before you both say at the same time:

“Vanilla caramel latte, no sugar?” “Vanilla caramel latte, no sugar.”

Color rushes to your cheeks and you mumble a thank you before distracting yourself with a sip of coffee. Before finding the strength to ask the ultimate question.

But he beats you to it. “I asked you to meet me because… Well, honestly, I wanted to check in. Catch up, and all, if that’s okay,” He says.

It hurts to smile, but you do it anyway. You have to. He can’t see the damage he left. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s good. Uh, how about you?” You know what he’s been up to. How can you not? How can you not when everything you’ve been doing is what you were supposed to too? How you were supposed to be at his side. How you were supposed to go everywhere with him. But then you didn’t.

“Good! We’ve been wrapping up premieres, you know. S’been… lonely.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hm.”

Chris looks at you, hands paused, curled around his own cup of coffee. Does he see through you? You feel his gaze burning into you, hoping, praying. Don’t see through me.

His eyes fall to the table, but then his hand is resting over yours. Soft, delicate. Deliberate. Caring.

Everything he used to be.

The hole in your chest is on fire.

“ **I hope one day you’re as happy as you’re pretending to be.** ”

He sees through you.

Shaking your head, an unsteady, nervous laugh tumbles past your lips as you deny, pulling your hand away from his warmth, the comfort of him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”

“[Y/N].”

“What?”  
“I know you.” Chris is deliberate, persistent. His hand slips into yours this time. His skin is smooth, his fingers are calloused but comforting as they graze your palm. “I’m an asshole, I know that, too. So, don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to yourself, okay? I came here because I missed you, y’know, and I don’t want this half-assed attempt to make it seem like you’re happy. I know you, and I know you’re not. And neither am I, [Y/N], I’m not. I’m not happy. Not since I fucked this up.”

Something changes.

The hole in your chest seems to squeeze shut. Just an inch. Half an inch, maybe.

All you do is stare at him. At the hand grasping yours, at the eyes waiting for an answer, soft, caring.

“I can’t--”

“Forgive me? You probably shouldn’t,” Chris interjects, “I shouldn’t have left you. Not like that. Not… Not ever.”

“No, no, Chris,” Your resolve is dissolving. Tears form in your eyes, shaking your head again. “I can’t think what to say, there’s… I don’t know where to go from here. With this. I… I’ve…” You trail off, unsure if you should. If you should be honest about the blood soaking your shirt every morning, the hole in your chest.

“Been crying every night? Eating ice cream, binge watching some stupid shit on Netflix? Because if you have, so have I. I can’t ask you to take--”

“But is it worth all that if I don’t?” You ask, inhaling sharply through your nose. You didn’t know what you were saying. You were being too vulnerable, too open to this. And maybe it’s because you saw this moment in a dream far too many times.

Chris takes a moment’s pause. Then it registers what you’ve really asked, and that smile you fell in love with tugs at the corners of those lips surrounded by that gorgeous stubble. “So…?”

You nod.

The hole doesn’t burn anymore.

No one tells you one day you’ll wake up with a hole in your chest. But no one tells you that sometimes, despite what it seems, the only one that can fill it is the one that put it there. 


End file.
